


Liberation

by Piano_Padawan



Series: Enemy Lines [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Horror, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-09-23 05:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20335165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piano_Padawan/pseuds/Piano_Padawan
Summary: The galaxy has declared the end of yet another war. Born of both the First Order and the Resistance, the Galactic Coalition gives hope of a true resolution to decades of conflict.For ex-General Armitage Hux, the final stage of the war remains surreal. Reconciled and now married to his lover from his younger years and former enemy, Poe Dameron, he lives a secluded life as one of the Coalition’s leading scientists. Having experienced firsthand the shortcomings of the Galactic Concordance, he is doubtful of the Coalition’s stability. It isn’t until they bring a child into their lives that he dares to believe in new beginnings.But Armitage’s fears are not unfounded. Enemies believed to be defeated are gaining strength. When a dark power begins to target their son, Poe and Armitage must confront both old and new demons to break a vicious cycle.(Technically this is the 3rd part of the Enemy Lines series. However, each fic in the series is meant to be understandable on its own.)(This story is not M-Preg. Poe and Hux’s son is born via fertilization/in vitro gestation techniques that exist in this sci-fi universe. More description in the story.)





	1. Good News

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars. I do not own any of the characters, names, themes, etc. related to the movies, books or other media. All copyrighted material is intended used for unofficial, nonprofit, transformative purposes.
> 
> So, as I mentioned, this is technically the third part of the Enemy Lines series. If you are following this series, please be aware that I will be updating it/posting the fics out of chronological order. Each part is intended to be understandable as a stand-alone story, though there are references to common themes/events in the timeline.

37 ABY

_The Ecumenopolis of Alsakan_

Today is another Victory Day. A celebration more triumphant than the last, or so they say. They say it’s real this time. They say there will be peace. Armitage Hux has heard it all before. He has seen such promises crumble under corruption and denial. There is no way of telling whether this time will be different, and, as always, he is skeptical.

The hologram projector flickers between scenes: the live parade on Coruscant, footage of the treaty signing two years ago, celebrations from the Core Worlds to the Outer Rim. There are moments when the festivities feel fresh like the birth of a new era. The rest of it seems like mimicry, a mirror image of the New Republic’s alleged Victory.

Armitage watches the broadcast, scrutinizing every word, hoping to catch some reassurance that was absent all those years ago. Unimpressed by the display, he turns a disinterested eye to his unfinished dinner: a half-eaten pastry and a shallow bowl of tepid soup. His appetite’s been gone for most of the day. He’s never had the motivation for consistent meals to begin with, and Poe isn’t around to nag him.

_Poe Dameron._ Armitage can’t think of another name that’s been so polarizing over the course of his life. In the past twenty years since they first met, the pilot has gone from partner to enemy to ally, all with the same brashness that Armitage hates to love. Their relationship was absurd from the start, something that could have – and perhaps, ought to have – gone awry with horrible consequences. At times, he still struggles to define Poe’s role in his life, though the band on his ring finger has offered some clarification.

Armitage has never believed in miracles, but he has yet to find a better word to fit the events that allowed them another chance at life. He knows he didn’t deserve one. Even now, with his legacy somewhat remedied in recent years, he can’t fault those who still demand his blood.

Whether his actions toward peace were grounds for mercy was never a clear-cut dilemma. Ultimately, the judgment was never his to decide, and the jury voted for a pardon, bringing him to where he is now: a suite on the planet of Alsakan situated above the Erso-Organa Center of Engineering and Biophysics.

The center was founded the year Kylo Ren’s faction of the First Order ousted the Imperial Remnant from the Alsakan system. At that time, Armitage’s alliance with Ren was still wrought with tension, but they’d both begrudgingly come to accept its necessity. Ren lacked the strategy and technical skill to command an army; Armitage lacked the lineage and mystic Force-sensitivity for a unifying public face.

The outcome may have been different if the Imperial Remnant had granted the young general a place in the oligarchy. As it happened, they chose to act against him. Soon after, the remains of the New Republic made a similarly ill-fated decision to expel ex-Commander Dameron and the increasingly illustrious Rey of Jakku from the ranks of the Resistance. In doing so, both alliances had signed their own death warrant.

And so, the final year of the Second Galactic Civil War drew to a close with the last Jedi and the last Skywalker at the head of the new Galactic Coalition, the Resistance’s star pilot leading its fleet, and the infamous ex-General Hux present enough to be useful but kept away from the public eye.

Armitage can’t complain. It’s all a definite improvement over dangling from a noose before a cheering mob, which was how he’d envisioned his future a few years ago. He’s been out of the warzone for two years now, and civilian life still feels surreal. It is as if the past thirty-six years have melted away like a nightmare, leaving him wide awake, blinking confusedly in the sunlight, his heart still pounding from fright.

A ticker runs across the top of the holovid, boasting another platitude about the fabled End to All Wars. Armitage flips the projector off. There’s only so much déjà vu he can stomach.

He switches on the main lights, squinting as his eyes adjust to the white glow. His dinner lies unfinished on the table. He stows the food away in the conservator, which is already stuffed with various half-eaten meals he’s accumulated over the past week. The fastidious side of him – which would dominate in all other cases – prickles at the sight of the cluttered shelves, but he leaves the mess untouched.

The suns have just begun set over the ecumenopolis, dousing the skyscrapers in a sanguine hue. An intersolar eclipse is scheduled for tonight, and the perceived overlap of the two suns in the Alsakan system has produced an unusual deep crimson glow. Occurring every five Galactic Standard Years, the eclipse is rare enough to be celebrated by the locals, though Armitage doesn’t see why; he’s never been one to gawk and marvel at predictable events.

He shuts the drapes before returning to work. The project at hand, a gas mask for the Coalition’s army, is a continuation from his work in the First Order. Chemical warfare was a topic of heated debate even in the days of the Empire. The First Order had an array of lethal formulas at the ready by the time Armitage took command as general, but controversy over safety precautions had stalled their use in battle. In peacetime, the threat of such weapons is minimal but not improbable enough to justify suspending the research.

He’s always been more of an engineer than a chemist. As such, his role on this project is mainly supervisory. The managerial tasks are rather dull in comparison to his more innovative endeavors, refined decloakers and other security tech. Nonetheless, he finds relief in the authority. 

A distant explosion shatters his concentration. He shoots up from his seat. Sharp pulses of blood race past tense nerves, sending a prickling shiver down his spine. Another blast sounds, this time proceeded by a distinct high-pitched wail.

_Fireworks. _Armitage settles down again, feeling foolish. Fortunately, there’s no one around to witness his paranoia. _Of course, it’s just fireworks._

His martial instincts remain sharp. Embarrassing as his hypervigilance can be, he refuses to let the old habits slip too far from reach. He needs that part of him awake and ready, waiting in the liminal reaches of his subconscious if and when the time comes again to use them.

For now, he tries to calm himself, turning the jittering energy in his veins to his work. Outside, the fireworks continue, shimmering bursts rising and fading against a blood-red canvas, bright, grand and ephemeral.

* * *

_Coruscant_

Fifty lightyears away, Poe Dameron watches a similar display under another sky. His view from the hangar isn’t ideal, but he can still see the flashes of color in a distance. A nostalgic buzz stirs within him at the sight. As veterans of the Rebel Alliance, his parents assured that he attended every annual celebration commemorating the Battle of Yavin. His mother participated in the air show herself on two occasions, leading her former squadron. The second year, she attempted to bring her young son along for the ride. Sadly, their plans were deterred by the event coordinators who deemed it unsafe to bring a seven-year-old into the cockpit (unaware that Poe had already been on his mother’s A-wing countless times before).

_“We’ll try again next year,” she told him. “You’ll be a star pilot by then, a little commander.”_

There wouldn’t be another year with his mother. After the First Order invasion, there wouldn’t be any more Rebel celebrations either, not for a long while. Fortunately, that wasn’t the end of it.

Two-and-a-half decades later, Commander Poe Dameron has just finished his second Victory Day air show on Coruscant. He has often wondered what his mother would think of the events since her passing, how the galaxy fanned the flames of a new war and pieced together the ashes afterwards; he isn’t always certain of the answer, but today he knows she would be proud.

It’s been a long day preceded by a long week of preparation. As much as he’s enjoyed the festivities, it’s a relief to go home. He hauls a cargo crate into the freighter, setting it down next to several other containers of miscellaneous goods and spare parts. BB-8 watches him from the entrance ramp, chattering impatiently about how he’s taking too long.

“I know, Buddy,” Poe says. “We’re almost done. Just one more to go. Right, Finn?”

“Two more,” Finn huffs, struggling with a particularly wide container. “What are you bringing back anyway? It smells.”

“Tarine fruit.” Poe hurries to help his friend lift the other end of the cargo. “And a couple bottles of Felucian wine.”

“Tarine fruit?” Finn grimaces. “Like the tea?”

Together, they carry the crate into the hull, pausing for a moment afterwards to break from the heavy lifting.

“Yeah. Comes from the same plant,” Poe hesitates before adding, “It’s for Armitage.”

He can see Finn tense hearing that name. The former Stormtrooper has tolerated Hux during their curt (blessedly few) meetings since the war ended. It’s as much as Poe can fairly ask of him, given their history. Still, he can’t help but wish they had better rapport.

“First-name basis,” Finn mutters.

“Happens when you’re married,” Poe says. He decides against relating how he knew the former general as ‘Armitage’ long before he was even a junior officer. “I assume you don’t call Rose ‘Miss Tico of Hays Minor’ all the time.”

“No, but we’re not… we’re not there yet,” Finn stutters. “Married I mean. Not that we’re not on a first-name basis.” He pauses and adds with a flustered sigh, “You know, just forget everything I just said. Do you have any more cargo or are we done?”

Poe nods at a long metal box at the bottom of the ramp.

“This one might be a bit tough,” Poe says. “It’s heavy.”

“Like everything else, you mean,” Finn remarks.

“Heavier.”

“Of course, it is.”

“It’ll be fine. Here. You lift that end. I lift the other end. You go forwards. I go backwards. Got it?”

“Stars, Poe… how much fruit are you bringing back for him?”

“It’s not fruit. It’s loose speeder parts.”

“Why are you bringing back…”

An uneven patch on the ramp sends Finn slipping backwards, pushing the full weight of the cargo onto Poe. The pilot tumbles onto the floor of the shuttle with a painful _thud_. The crate falls beside him, upside-down but otherwise unscathed. BB-8 nudges his master who winces a little as he gets to his feet.

“I’m okay,” Poe reassures the droid. BB-8 gives an exasperated series of beeps before rolling off to secure the cargo. “Finn? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Finn calls from the bottom of the ramp. “You might want to come here. I think you dropped something when you fell. Actually, you dropped _a lot_ of things.”

“Well, that explains why my pockets feel so empty,” Poe says, patting his jacket.

An assortment of forgotten trash and holocards is strewn across the ramp. Poe gathers the mess, indiscriminately stuffing it back into his pocket. He makes a mental note to organize the trinkets later, one that he already knows he’ll forget.

“Sekano Fertility Labs?” Finn is squinting down at one of the holocards. He hands it to Poe with a quizzical look. “What’s this for?”

“That’s…” Poe hesitates. The answer is long and will only cast more confusion if he rushes through it. Furthermore, it doesn’t feel right to discuss the matter with anyone before he’s relayed everything to Armitage. “Private stuff for me and Tage.”

Finn looks even more puzzled.

“Is it er… possible?” he asks. “For you and him to…”

“Neither of us can get pregnant as far as I know, if that’s your question.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Poe is taken aback by the sudden gravity in Finn’s voice. They’re treading unsteady territory now, and he knows the best option is to quit before they get into an argument. Finn, and most of the other Resistance veterans, have made their opinions clear on the subject. And they aren’t alone in their thinking – Armitage has already been blacklisted by the adoption agencies.

The idea of anyone, much less the Resistance’s star pilot, would want to raise a child with the infamous former general was absurd in the eyes of many. Equally absurd was the idea that Armitage wanted a child even more so than his husband. But Poe knows both sentiments are earnest. The galaxy can call it lunacy if they wish. He’s never considered either of them to be sane in the normal sense anyway.

“Oh well, who knows what’ll happen,” Poe says quickly, leaving no time for further debate. “It might amount to nothing. Anyway, I’d better get going before it gets too late. Thanks again for helping me with the cargo.”

Finn still looks doubtful but refrains from voicing any dissent for now.

“Anytime, Poe,” he says. “You take care. I’ll see you next month at the Galactic Summit.”

“See you then.” Poe boards the ship after one final hug. “Keep in touch in the meantime. You know where to find me!”

* * *

_Alsakan_

Armitage is already in bed when he hears the door to the suite open. He jolts upright but settles down when he realizes the door was not forced. There is no intruder, no threat, and no reason to fear.

He slips back under the covers as Poe enters the room, squirming about in an attempt to find a comfortable position.

“You’re awake?” Poe asks.

“Obviously,” Armitage mumbles. “You’re late getting back.”

“You don’t sound too happy about that.” Poe switches on the bedside lamp. The light is rather mild – just enough for him to unpack a few items from his bag – but Armitage still shifts away from the glow. “Does that mean you missed me?”

“That’s a foolish assumption.”

With an impish grin, Poe leans down and pecks his husband on the forehead.

“Foolish doesn’t mean it’s wrong,” he says.

“You smell like shuttle exhaust.” Armitage wrinkles his nose, pulling down the blanket to make his displeasure more visible. “You realize you’re not getting onto this bed until you take a shower.”

The mattress creaks as Poe reluctantly slides off of it. He stretches his arms wide, giving a long, theatrical yawn.

“But I’m tired,” he whines. “Can’t I just bathe in the morning?”

“No,” says Armitage. “I’m not going to have this whole bed smell like a starship hangar, and I don’t want to wake up reeking of one either.”

“I thought you’d like it, given how much you like pilots.”

“I happen to like _one _pilot as of now. And if he’s not careful, I can always change my mind.”

Poe’s retort is muffled by the sound of running water. By now, Armitage knows him well enough to extrapolate a reply, something along the lines of “You love me too much to do that, Hugs” or another hackneyed yet strangely appealing phrase. H e’s relieved to have Poe home. The restless nights are much easier to wait out together than alone.

Poe returns to the bedroom after a few minutes. Having yet to unpack his nighttime clothing, he rolls into bed in his bathrobe, his hair still a little damp from the shower.

“You’re going to get the sheets wet,” Armitage mutters.

“Stars, Tage.” Poe turns to look at him, a facetious glint in his eyes. “You’re so grumpy today. Come on. Lighten up. Today’s supposed to be a happy day.” He slips an arm around Armitage, letting the latter guide it down to his waist. “We should be celebrating.”

“We don’t know for certain if it’s a happy day,” Armitage says. His tone is lighter than his thoughts. He refrains from delving deeper into the subject. Poe is already very much aware of his views on “premature” victory.

But wariness is tiring, even for the most unyielding skeptic, and after today, Armitage is exhausted. Now, he craves a moment of blind trust, a brief reprieve for him to believe, as so many others seem to, that they have indeed found their sanctuary.

After they are both satisfied, Poe turns off the lights and wraps the blanket tighter around both of them. Armitage lies flat, facing the ceiling. He still has yet to grow fully accustomed to tenderness. A part of him doubts he ever will be. It isn’t so much a question of pleasure during the act but rather the difficulties come with the aftermath, reconciling the gentleness he now craves with the brutality he’s endured from others, believing against years of thinking otherwise that he’s worthy of this kind of intimacy.

“I have something I need to talk to you about tomorrow,” Poe says.

“Good news or bad news?” Armitage asks.

“Good news.”

“Why can’t you tell me now?”

Poe yawns and shifts onto his side.

“It’ll take a while to discuss,” he murmurs. “And I’m too sleepy. I’d be incoherent. Just wanted to give you a heads up, so that you’re not caught up with work all day. I mean, it’s a holiday tomorrow, but you know how you are…”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense too long,” Armitage replies dryly.

“Don’t worry,” says Poe. “It’ll be morning before we know it, which is why you’d better get some sleep. Good night, darling.”

“Good night.”

Poe dozes off within a few minutes, his breathing calm and steady. Armitage closes his eyes, drifting into a shallow dream.

_He is on an evacuation shuttle, peering out of the eyes of a five-year-old boy who cannot begin to comprehend the world he’s fallen into. No one has spoken to him since the shuttle took flight, save a few ambiguous remarks about Arkanis being “hazardous” and several threats from his father to stop pestering the crew. There is a hologram monitor at the far end of the aisle, flashing strings of letters above a flickering image. He is not old enough to read all the words and what he can understand baffles him: _

_Peace._

_Hope._

_Life._

_Victory._

_He is only a child. He has much to learn, much to suffer in future years. But even now, he sees through the lie. He knows this is only the beginning, and he is terrified of what has yet to come._


	2. Weighing the Odds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if there are stupid typos here. I will edit this for grammar later.

The next morning begins with burnt toast. Armitage awakens to the smoky odor prickling at his nostrils. It isn’t the ideal way to start his day, but he’s had worse. He swings his feet onto the floor, forcing his tired legs to stand and walk to the kitchen.

Poe is seated at the counter, scraping charred crumbs off a very crisp slice of bread. Realizing that his breakfast is beyond saving, he tosses the food into the waste basket and places another piece in the therma-slice.

“Oh, hey,” he greets his husband with a smile. “You’re up early.”

“It’s a little hard to sleep with you trying to burn the building down,” Armitage says. “I still don’t understand how you can fly an X-Wing but you can’t operate a toaster.”

“Yeah, well, the controls are a little different. Fewer cannons and all.” Poe slides his breakfast (under-toasted this time) onto a plate and begins searching through the cabinets. “Where did you put the jam again?”

“There’s a saucer in the conservator.” Armitage nods towards the appliance, eyeing the caf machine next to it. His usual sequence calls for caf _after _freshening up in the morning. He feels slightly guilty deviating from the routine, informal or not, but today, his heavy eyelids and clouded thoughts argue otherwise. He settles for a compromise: taking a mug back to the bedroom while he gets dressed.

The absence of a uniform in his closet is still jarring. As far back as he can remember, he’s had a rigid protocol for what to wear, down to the last stitch on his socks. Even now, he prefers clothing in the same fashion as his past attire: dignified but practical designs with muted or dark, solid colors. Juxtaposed with Poe’s more eclectic wardrobe, Armitage’s side of the dresser is far more “orderly” (as he likes to put it).

“Oh, not again. Tage!”

Armitage returns to the kitchen, still busy buttoning his shirt, where Poe has emptied the conservator. The kitchen island, which was impeccably clear a moment ago, is now crowded with dozens of plates, bowls and cups, containing a week’s worth of leftovers. Armitage cringes at the mess, though it comes as no surprise. The ghost of muffled shouting and the sharp crack of flesh hitting flesh ring in his ears, followed by the distant cry of a boy, terrified of starving to death.

“I’m going to throw this out, okay?” Poe says. “We can go food shopping after that.”

“I’ll clean it up.” Armitage hurries forward to help. “It’s my mess to begin with.”

“No.” Poe waves him away. “I’ve got this one. You need to go and get yourself something to eat. Especially since you haven’t eaten more than three and a half meals this last week by the looks of it.”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” Armitage mutters.

He grabs one of the bowls and a fresh spoon from the dishwasher, sitting down across from his husband. BB-8 rolls into the room, nudging Armitage’s seat for a light pat on his “head” before moving to Poe’s side. The concept of droids being another beyond highly sophisticated machines is still relatively novel to Armitage. But even with his Imperial upbringing, he can’t overlook the reciprocated affection between Dameron and the astromech droid. Armitage has made some attempts to emulate this, though he isn’t sure whether they’ve been successful or not. At least the droid seems a less leery of him now than before.

“What are you eating?” Poe asks, wrinkling his nose at the soggy grains.

“Ghoba rice pudding.” Armitage gulps down a mouthful before Poe can stop him. The texture has thinned to a fluid-like mix, drowning any last hint of flavor from the dish. “It’s good and fresh for a month under cold temperatures.” A second chilled spoonful convinces him to amend his statement, “At least, it’s safe to eat for a month.”

“That doesn’t mean you should do it.” Poe eyes the chalky mixture warily. “You know it’s okay to throw out food.”

“Yes, I know, I know,” Armitage says, eager to change the subject. “Now, what’s this ‘surprise’ you mentioned last night?”

He can see the excitement flicker in Poe’s eyes. He’s never been able to tell whether that look is a good or a bad sign.

“Where’s my jacket?” Poe asks.

“I put it away in the dresser where it belongs,” Armitage replies, nodding to their bedroom.

A moment later, Poe returns with the data chip. He places it in BB-8’s data port, allowing the droid to project a bright image.

The projection appears to be an advertisement. A large title running along the top reads, “Tsekan Fertility Labs”. Below it are several links and an ongoing slideshow, boasting pictures of couples, infants, and families. It’s a familiar display, one that evoked hope when they first started thinking about a child. Now, the bubble of excitement feels quixotic, though Armitage still can’t hold it back.

“You know it’s a lost cause, Poe,” he says. Better to quench the anticipation before it grows, for both of their sakes.

“I know what you’re thinking, but just hear me out,” Poe insists. “This is something different. It’s new technology…”

“Spermatonucleic fusion,” Armitage interjects. “Was that what it’s called?”

Poe looks a little disappointed. Evidently, he had a speech of sorts prepared.

“You’ve heard of it?” he says.

“Of course, I have,” Armitage replies. “You realize we have a genetics department a few floors below us? Their laboratory is just a few doors from the main conference room.”

“So, you’ve already thought about it then?”

They both know the answer. They’ve lost count of how many adoption agencies have denied their application, how many fruitless alternatives they’ve pursued.

“They’ll turn us down,” says Armitage. “More accurately, they’d turn _me _down.”

He knows he’s culpable for the rejections, among so many other shortcomings. No number of apologies or words of reassurance from his husband can relieve the guilt. He wonders now, as he so often has, where Poe would be if they’d parted ways after the war. The starfighter hero would have had no trouble finding another lover, someone who wasn’t a pariah. Perhaps Dameron would already have a family by now, a partner and children with whom he could live the normalcy he deserved.

“Not this time.” Per usual, Poe sounds far too confident. “In fact, if they reject one of us, it’ll probably be me.”

“If you’re going to lie to spare my feelings, at least say something halfway plausible,” Armitage scoffs.

“Armitage, they’re First Order-affiliated.”

It sounds like a joke. A horrible joke, but Armitage doesn’t know what else to make of the sheer absurdity.

“How heavily were you drinking during the Victory Day festivities?” he asks. “It must have been quite substantial to cloud two years from your memory.”

“Very funny, Hugs,” Poe says. “Alright, ‘First Order-affiliated’ probably isn’t the most accurate way to put it, but most of the staff did get their start in the Order’s research programs. They’ll want to work with you. Some of them met you before, at least from what I heard.”

Armitage has averted his eyes downward, hoping to conceal any inkling of curiosity, or worse, eagerness. Under most circumstances, he defers to the rules of probability, reserving any hopes for times when the odds were incontrovertibly biased in his favor. He realized years ago that this was the only respectable and secure way to handle uncertainty.

“And who exactly this you hear all this from, may I ask?”

“One of their founding doctors,” Poe replies. “Or at least, that’s how she introduced herself. I met her at the Victory Day celebration. Dr. Tanna Kei, I think. I might be getting her first name wrong…”

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” said Armitage.

“She’s about my height.” Poe waved a hand level with his forehead to demonstrate. “Uh… older, maybe my dad’s age. Human female. Dark haired, kind of greying.”

Having apparently exhausted his list of traits, he looked to Armitage expectantly. The latter only frowned back at him.

“Well, she did say you might have been too young to remember her,” Poe added.

“How young exactly?” Armitage questioned.

“Maybe three… four years old? She was with some team of geneticists on Arkanis if that helps.”

Even now, Armitage tenses at the mention of his homeplanet. His memories of early childhood are largely indistinct. Some of the gaps grant him reprieve. Others allow for speculation, yielding recollections so vivid he cannot discern them from the truth.

“Must have been one of those working with the gene database,” Armitage murmurs.

“Working on what?”

Armitage has divulged fragments of Arkanis to Poe, either willingly or because the situation necessitated an explanation. Most of it comprises a factual timeline: how and why his mother fled the planet, a limited description of what he remembered of her (if any of it was real at all), how he had come under his father’s custody, the progression of the siege, and his unexpected rescue. But the Imperial Genetic Database has escaped mention till now.

“It doesn’t exist anymore,” Armitage says. “But in the later years of the Empire there was a movement to create genetic records. I can’t say I know what for exactly; I don’t think it was ever disclosed, though there’ve been rumors about something to do with a clone army. Regardless, they started building the Imperial Genetic Database shortly after I was born, and it was shut down a few years later.”

Armitage looks across the counter at his husband who nods but gives no comment, an gentle invitation to continue.

“I don’t think I would have even known about it. Most in my generation never had any real experience with the database. The timing of the project’s peak just missed us, you see.”

He pauses, gathering the poise to cease his rambling. He could stall for longer, but it would do no good. Poe would be suspicious, worried, and it doesn’t seem fair to leave him in suspense.

“It was after my mother… left me.” _Left_ is an understatement. There are a plethora of alternative phrases, brought to his attention by his father and peers, but Armitage is them whenever he could. “The troops found me after the air raids started in our sector. They took me and the other children they found back to the main base. It was pure chaos at first, but as the parents and other relatives came, they were able to sort through most of us, matching families. Those were the easy cases. Mine was one of the difficult ones.”

“What about your father?” Poe asks hesitantly.

“He didn’t come,” Armitage asserts. “He would never have come for me his own accord, though quite frankly, I’m not certain he knew I existed at that point. He never told me, or rather he told me conflicting versions. He’d just refer to whichever one made me out to be more of a nuisance whenever I asked. I didn’t know _he_ existed at that age, and that was part of the problem. I didn’t know my mother’s full name either. She never really used names for either of us, actually.

“Eventually, the crew at the base had me and a few other unclaimed children. The older ones were sent straight to the academy. I was too young. I don’t know how they got the idea, but someone suggested using the database. I suppose they thought it would be a good story to prove the project’s value. And so, they brought in the geneticists. They took a sample, ran it through the system and matched me to my father. They sent me to live with him and his wife shortly after, and… well, you know the rest.”

The story plays before him in flashes. The officer’s questions drone in his head (“Who are your parents, boy? Where are they?”), followed by the same answers (“Mama. No father.” and “Don’t know. She got lost.”, respectively. Both responses had prompted the unamused officer to politely inform Brendol that his son was slow-witted).

He pushes away the remaining dregs of his breakfast, having lost his appetite. Poe is at his side, easing him into a consoling embrace.

“I’m sorry, Tage,” he says. “I didn’t mean to make you think back to that. I… should have thought before I asked.”

_As if I wouldn’t think of it otherwise…_

“It’s over now,” Armitage manages. “As long as it doesn’t happen again.”

“It won’t,” Poe says. “Nothing like that will ever happen again. I’ll make sure of it. No, we’ll make sure of it.”

The projection for Tsekan Fertlity Labs shines before them, presenting a chance they cannot forsake.

“For our child,” Armitage says, as much a question as an answer.

“For our child.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments and kudos are appreciated. I always enjoy hearing people's thoughts on the story. Feedback helps me improve as a writer. Constructive criticism is welcome too.
> 
> I will try to keep this updated regularly.


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